


Rule of Thirds

by demigodscum



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Photography, Pining, Stalker Tim Drake, Tim feat his camera, Voyeurism, minor pining after adult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 12:03:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19106710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigodscum/pseuds/demigodscum
Summary: Tim watches the punctum of his existence.





	Rule of Thirds

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as an excuse for me to lowkey write about photography. Don't know how I got here.
> 
> Spoilers for Batman (1940-) #408. Set circa 1986. Tim never goes to boarding school because that doesn't make sense.
> 
> Also, in my head, he doesn't start taking pictures immediately after beginning to follow Batman and Robin around. I think he takes his time figuring out a system while he learns about photography (given the time era, not at all simple) and collecting the necessary tools. What that means is, if Tim spent about a year following Dick, then he only has a few months' worth of pictures of the first Robin.
> 
> * * *
>
>> It is this element which rises from the scene, shoots out of it like an arrow, and pierces me. A Latin word exists to designate this wound, this prick, this mark made by a pointed instrument: the word suits me all the better in that it also refers to the notion of punctuation, and because the photographs I am speaking of are in effect punctuated, sometimes even speckled with these sensitive points; precisely, these marks, these wounds, are so many _points_. This second element which will disturb the _studium_ I shall therefore call _punctum_ ; for _punctum_ is also: sting, speck, cut, little hole—and also a cast of dice. A photograph’s _punctum_ is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me).
> 
> Roland Barthes, _Camera Lucida_

**1 / i. 1/60 | f/8 | ISO 400 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400 | Kodak D-76 | Ilfospeed Multigrade II MG.2M Matt | Ilford Multigrade Developer**

It's dark. He can barely see, his pulse is too elevated not to compromise his grip, his position is precarious.

He takes the shot anyway.

When he is back in his room, he changes out of his dirty clothes and heads for the en suite. Despite the exhaustion in his bones, it feels as if his every cell in his dermis is vibrating with restless energy. There is no way he can _wait_ , not for _this_.

Tim develops the entire negative even though only one of twenty-four frames has been used. He double checks that all the necessary tools are at hand, and then he waits a few minutes for his eyes to adjust once he shuts the door and turns off the light. Only after he's sure he can't see _anything_ does he pry open the cartridge.

It's slow, loading the film onto the reel, setting up the tank. It takes him longer than the practice tests took him—he can't _ruin_ this, not _this_ , so he just. Has to take his time. Go easy.

Developing it takes _forever_ —

Tim leaves the negative hanging in the bathroom and goes to take a nap while it dries—

And when the timer goes off underneath his pillow thirty minutes later, he gets up and goes back to the bathroom, closing the door behind him and turning on the safelight. He double checks everything for _this_ process—tray and tongs one, tray and tongs two, tray and tongs three, paper, focus finder, sink and tray—and then he slides the negative into the holder and slides _that_ in the enlarger and turns it on—

And _there_ , projected on the easel, are two nebulous figures. 

The first try is useless. Everything is shadows. Some are maybe one zone right of pure black, but none are enough to make a whole figure. Nothing.

The second test strip is a little better. Not good.

The third one spends half of the time under exposure. It's better. The shadows can actually be distinguished from the background—but just barely. Not good enough.

The fourth one is incomprehensible. Too much aperture. As it is, the figures are quite blurry. Not good enough yet.

The fifth strip is acceptable enough. Maybe. 

He makes an 8 x 10 copy. The edges are all gone to black, but he doesn't care. He wasn't measuring for those. The center is a mess of shadows captured in movement; it's all a little too dark and too blurry to see details, but he doesn't _need_ details. He _knows_ —he was there, and he _knows_. The figure on the left is tall and wide, the darkest non-black shadow. The figure on the right is shorter and slimmer, smoke grays with the slightest hint of cloud white. There should be a third figure, but it is lost in the underexposed background. He doesn't care. That figure doesn't matter. 

He has _this_ , shadowed and distanced and blurry, but he _has this_. This is _his_.  
 

* * *

   
**5 - 7. 1/60 | f/4 | f/5.6 | ISO 400 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400 | Kodak D-76**

Three shots this time. It's the fifth night he takes any, first night he takes more than one. 

Robin and Batman, leaping from one rooftop to another. Tim was walking on the sidewalk, following after them, so the image is from a low angle that, even with the tele lens, makes them look small.

Robin, apprehending two would-be thieves while Batman watches, unseen, from the shadows of a fire escape. Tim had to crouch behind a dumpster in the alleyway across the street for that one. He thinks if Batman hadn't been so focused on Robin, he would have noticed Tim when he accidentally banged the camera against the metal container.

Batman, one hand on Robin's shoulder once they're back up on a rooftop. Tim barely remembered to depress the shutter when he spotted the gesture from the rangefinder. It looked just like it did when Batman placed his hands on each of Dick's shoulders that night at the circus, like Dick— _Robin_ —was _safe_. Like _Batman_ would keep him safe.

His heart beats too fast, and his hands tremble even after he's done shaking the tank during development. It's not like he can _see_ anything, not with the film safely hidden away, but he sees _everything_ because he never forgets—

And he never will.

There's no time to print any of them, unfortunately. Tim figures there almost never will be, not on the same nights he goes out. He makes a tentative decision to develop film those nights and print on the others, tortuous as it will be not to have results when he _wants_ them. 

But it's—okay, maybe. It has to be. This is all he has.  
 

* * *

   
**19\. 1/60 | f/4 | ISO 400 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400**

Tim is...

Tired.

He takes the picture somewhat miraculously given how much it aches to keep holding up the camera. It's _them_ though, Batman and Robin, fighting crime, bringing _justice_ to the city of Gotham, so he—

He makes the shot, but, if he's honest with himself, he isn't sure what even was in the rangefinder. Maybe the negative will show something, maybe it won't.

Maybe—

He needs to change his system. That's all he can think about as he waits for them to finish zipping up the criminals and leave. Between school, karate, running around Gotham at night, and developing the exposed (because he learned already to just cut the portion he needs and keep the rest in the cartridge rather than take it all out and waste unused frames) film when he gets back, he's been getting too little rest. As it is, tonight's work will more likely than not be utterly useless. 

Tim _thinks_ the picture was Batman slashing at a man with the spikes on his gauntlet, but he might be wrong.

He really should have stayed home tonight.

_Somehow_ , he makes it back without getting caught. He leaves his camera sitting on the bathroom counter and resolves to doing only one of three activities at night.  
 

* * *

   
**26 - 32. 1/60 | 1/125 | f/8 | ISO 800 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400 | Kodak D-76**

Tonight's pictures are fairly uneventful. Tim is glad for it because he tried forcing the negative to a higher speed for the first time. He thought about shooting a trial film some other time, but the truth is this is the only subject that matters, and if it doesn't work with this, it doesn't work at all. 

It's the weekend, so Tim lets curiosity get the best of him and develops the film despite the late hour. 

Because he only underexposed one stop, the processing times are the same. Seven minutes, thirty seconds, six minutes, thirty seconds, two minutes, five minutes, thirty seconds. Wash, rinse, repeat. Tim can do this now without thinking about it much.

He lets the repetitiveness of the agitation and the sound of the chemicals moving inside the tank lull him into a state of semi-awareness.

Around midnight, Batman and Robin stopped in a residential neighborhood for their routine break. Tim managed to climb on the roof of a four-story on the street parallel to theirs, and there he sat and watched their silhouettes from behind. Robin was perched on the ledge, Batman was crouched behind him. By the subtle ways in which they moved, they were talking, not that Tim was able to hear anything. He seldom can, really. Rather, he's relegated to _watching_ , observing, witnessing. Always has, always will.

At one point, Batman—

And maybe it was _Bruce_ , because Tim thinks he's starting to see a _difference_ , but he can't be _sure_ —

Batman—for _now_ —reached up and—he didn't _ruffle_ Robin's (Dick's?) hair. He just— _carded_ one of his gauntleted hands through it, softly, with _care_. And Tim...

Something inside him _ached_. Aches. Nothing he can pinpoint, nothing he can put a name to, yet still _there_ , very much present within the confines of his body. It felt a little like his _something_ was being squeezed and stretched simultaneously, like a piece of himself couldn't decide whether to shrink into nothing or expand into everything. 

It makes no sense even to him, but it doesn't _feel_ any less true because of it.

The negative turns out surprisingly well. From what he can tell using a loupe (without letting it touch the wet film), the grain is slightly larger and there are maybe a bit less shadows than he would have expected from the lighting of the images, but it's not at all bad. Definitely worth it if it means getting more balanced frames. Plus, if he can start cutting down his shutter speed and/or using higher apertures, then he'll be able to capture the faster movements that have only appeared blurred so far and increase the depth of field.

Tim lets out a yawn and hangs the negative out to dry. Printing will have to wait.  
 

* * *

   
**xix - xxii. Ilfospeed Multigrade II MG.2M Matt | Ilford Multigrade Developer**

Tim makes a contact sheet this time and spends seven minutes staring at the tiny thirty-five-millimeter rectangles. He selects four negatives on which to work for the afternoon. Only three of them matter; the other one is for subterfuge purposes. He needs to be prepared to show _something_ in case anyone were to inquire about his photographic work sometime.

He starts with that print, an image of Ives from the last time they were together outside of school. Tim pays attention to what he does if only because it's _training_ , but he doesn't even go for a test strip or a second try before he decides it's good enough and moves on.

Second comes what even Tim has to admit is a _cool_ shot—Batman is midair, cape extended behind him, and the background is the nebulous image of the Batsignal projected in the sky. The frame is mostly darks that go from Zone 0 to III. The only thing approaching highlights is the large circle of light, and even that isn't lighter than Robin's cape in most pictures. It works though, the shadows and the way everything is slightly blurry with movement. It's quintessential Batman.

The third positive is actually of Batgirl, who, much to Tim's delight, dropped in on Batman and Robin one night last week. By the slight pause in their fighting (large group of gang members), it was an equally unexpected visit for them. Everyone recovered quickly, and the three worked in tandem without a hitch. At a guess, Tim would say they _must_ train together, even sometimes, for their choreography to be so flawless. Even the criminals had seemed... _distracted_ , somehow, after Barbara's arrival.

In the photo, she's crouched low after having executed a vicious roundhouse kick. One of her legs, the one she kicked out with, is extended out to the side, the other one bent in front of her. She has an arm on the ground between her legs, and Tim knows that she's using it as leverage because, in the second after the picture, she does a sweeping kick and takes out yet another criminal. 

All in all, it was wonderful to see her that night. Tim hasn't tried following her, so he appreciates the few and far in between opportunities he gets to catch even a glimpse. And this photo, with it being the first he's taken of her, Tim will treasure forever.

He _will_ , absolutely, but as soon as he gets a copy that satisfies him, Tim remembers that there's that _other_ negative to print, and he... forgets about Batgirl. For the moment.

Because. Because the fourth frame is _that one_ of Batman with his hand on Robin's shoulder. 

It takes five test strips (all taken from exactly that gesture, the absolute most important thing in the image) before Tim is pleased with an exposure time and aperture. He makes the first full-sized positive and decides that equally as important as the hand-on-shoulder bit is Robin's—and this is, in retrospect, another of those times when Tim isn't sure if it should be _Dick_ —face, tilted (only slightly because he isn't so small anymore) back to look up at—

Batman? 

_Bruce_.

For the second copy, Tim takes a piece of cardboard and hovers it above Batman's figure, making sure the cardboard isn't so static that it will show up on the print. He wants Robin to be a little more exposed than in the first copy but without sacrificing the texture in Batman's dark suit. It's not easy, exactly, mostly because the cardboard should probably be cut up so it's round and Tim hasn't done this before. 

It turns up _okay_ , which is to say it could be better.

Tim can tell the _third_ print is even better when it's still in the developer tray. 

His heart starts beating faster when he moves the paper into the stop bath. Faster yet when he moves it into the fixer.

Tim lays down on his bed, holds up the photo above himself. It's still wet, but he figures it doesn't make much difference if he hangs it up to dry in his bathroom or lets it drip water on him. 

It really, really doesn't. What _does_ make a difference is that Tim has now seen Batman's hands on Dick's shoulders and Batman's hand on Robin's shoulder and Batman's hand in Robin's hair and—

And it _has_ to be Bruce and Dick. It just. He's _seen_ Batman's gauntlets elsewhere, punching criminals and correcting Robin's stance and shaking Gordon's hand, and this is decidedly _not_ that. Whatever this _is_ , whatever its name, it's infinitely gentler.

And for the first time, it occurs to Tim that maybe he isn't supposed to see this.  
 

* * *

   
**41 - 45 / xxx - xxxiv. 1/125 | f/5.6 | ISO 800 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400 | Kodak D-76 | Ilfospeed Multigrade II MG.2M Matt | Ilfospeed Multigrade II MG.2M Glossy | Ilford Multigrade Developer | Ilford Multigrade Filter #2 ½**

Bright, close. Perfect.

There are other good shots from tonight, ones of Batman leaping down from a low building, of Robin taking down one of the Penguin's goons, of the two of them, back to back, being a team, _partners_.

None of them—none of the pictures he has taken so far—compare to this one. _These ones_.

Out of frame, one of the tall lights that illuminate the port. The background is just the Gotham night sky, a dark Zone II.

In the center, flying across the air, is the lone figure of Robin, twisted beautifully in a flawless quadruple somersault.

The first one, technically, isn't Robin flying but Robin hanging from a container crane. His bare legs are tense and extended, feet pointed down.

The second one _is_ Robin flying, knees tucked against his chest, arms around his calves. This fraction of a second has him in the top half of the circle his body is twirling in, facing the ground. Amidst the shadows, Tim can see the smallest hint of a grin on Robin's face.

The third one is very similar, merely a twist after the previous one. Robin's arms are letting loose of his legs, which are also coming down. He is still flying.

In the fourth one, Robin's form cuts a perfect diagonal line across the frame. From top left to bottom right, it's just _him_ , cape straightened out behind him, one hand at his hip and the other extended in front of him. Even as he falls, even as he reduces his angular velocity, he _flies_.

The fifth one is different and the same simultaneously. In between the previous frame and this one, Robin shot out the grapple gun, which latched onto a container. He is using the leverage to pull himself upright. His legs are coming down near two criminals trying to escape. It's not in the picture, but Tim knows, in the next millisecond, Robin's foot will connect to one of their heads in a vicious kick that will push the man onto the other one, and both of them will fall, and then Batman will knock them out.

Robin never touches the ground. Robin always _flies_.

The last time Tim felt like this, this _warm_ and _weightless_ , he had been three years old and embraced in the best hug of his life.

He makes copy after copy of each negative, struggling to find the perfect aperture, the perfect exposure time. He still hasn't mastered filters, but he tries them anyway, playing with the contrast again and again, going back and forth between gradings. More shadow on the folds of the cape, a tiny bit of halo around Robin's backlit figure, more highlights on his face.

At some point, the packet of paper he had been using runs out, so Tim opens another one and has to adjust the measurements all over again when he realizes it's glossy rather than matte finish. He doesn't have any more matte though, so he just takes a deep breath and starts over.

Then it's six thirty on a Thursday, time for school, but Tim doesn't have his perfect print yet, and he can't leave it halfway through. He lies, which is nothing new even if he's never done it to get out of class. He doesn't care. It doesn't matter. Nobody asks him anything except whether he wants Tylenol.

(He says yes, doesn't swallow it, spits it out when he gets back to his room.)

When he finally settles on a print for each frame, he takes them with him out of the bathroom. He spreads them out on his bed, then decides the straight row is inadequate and rearranges them to form the parabola that Robin's body made through the air. There are gaps in between the shots, fractions of a fraction of a second that Tim missed, but it's easy for his mind to fill in the gaps. 

Robin's body pushing against the wind right after letting go of the crane—

Robin's legs coming up over his head before the first twist—

Robin twirling again and again and again—

His arms ache from holding the camera and working in the darkroom for so long and his eyes burn with exhaustion, but he ignores all that in favor of looking at—at Robin, at—

_Dick_.

Tim feels something curling inside him, perhaps satisfaction tinged with awe. Dick is... _beautiful_ , graceful, delicate— _strong_ , and Tim can never have _him_ , but he can have _this_.  
 

* * *

   
**57\. 1/125 | f. 5.6 | ISO 800 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400**

Tim only takes one picture because, for most of the disaster, he's too out of it to do anything.

He gets to the Art Museum just in time to see it. The Joker is facing Batman and then the Joker is facing Robin and then, past the sound of the pouring rain, Tim hears a gunshot.

Tim knows it's a gunshot is because Gotham has too many of those.

He almost— _almost_ —drops the camera at that sound. Because the Joker is _facing_ _Robin_ and the Joker has a _gun_ and so the only logical conclusion is that—

But then it almost doesn't matter because Robin _falls_ —

And hits a ledge about two stories below the roof.

And doesn't get _up_.

Tim doesn't hear the sound he makes, but he feels it vibrating in his throat, his chest, his whole _body_. He feels _too much_ for a moment, feels every ounce of fear he has ever cultivated bubble up and try to escape before everything just—shuts _down_ , and he's left hollow and empty and—

Up there, too far from Tim and too far from Batman, is Dick bleeding out?

Did his head crack open when it hit the concrete, or is it just the gunshot wound?

Robin's cape, spilt over the side of the ledge, is the only thing visible from where Tim—

His knees are wet. _All_ of him is wet, but he realizes now that he's fallen to his knees. The urge to curl up is sudden and overwhelming, but he can't tear his eyes from the museum building, where there's now a bright green helicopter, where Batman is stopping the Joker from escaping.

Tim watches and watches and watches, the way he always does, until Batman is lowering himself onto the ledge, until Bruce has Dick in his arms.

The spotlight from the news chopper that showed up at some point when Tim wasn't paying attention shines down on Batman and Robin. And Tim would be angry that these people are intruding in this—this— _this_ —

But the light lets him see Bruce holding his hand against Dick's neck for a moment before he slides it down to Dick's chest.

The picture Tim takes—and he isn't even sure when he raised the camera to eye-level—is of Bruce cradling his son under the rain falling from the night sky. 

If Dick were dead, Tim thinks Bruce would stay there for a moment longer. Bruce would maybe tilt his head back and not say anything, or he would bow his head down and whisper some lament. Maybe he would kneel down or clutch Dick closer to him. Tim can't be sure, but he thinks it would be obvious if Bruce were mourning already.

Just as it's obvious—to _Tim_ , who watches, _always_ —that he _isn't_.

Batman hoists Robin over his shoulder and flies off.  
 

* * *

   
**xl. Ilfospeed Multigrade II MG.2M Glossy | Ilford Multigrade Developer**

It's a lonely, dark frame with a lot of negative space. Batman looks not so much a part of the shadows as he looks like he's being swallowed up by them. He is a dark vertical figure in the middle of the frame, surrounded by yet more dark. Five criminals lie on the ground in an assortment of positions, all zip-stripped and, Tim knows, unconscious. Members of one of the smaller gangs, but Tim wasn't able to determine which one from his position or the location.

The photo is _dark_ , and not in any of the usual Gotham ways. It just—Batman is being swallowed up by the shadows, and he's just _standing_ there looking down at his victims, doing _nothing_ , the way he did absolutely _nothing_ for approximately three minutes while Tim took this shot.

His arms hang at his sides, his head is bowed—

Batman looks _defeated_. And alone. _Lost_ , like he's unsure how he got there or what comes next.

There is a distinct absence of _lightness_ in the frame—no light grays, no light bodies, no light smiles, no _light_.

Robin... 

is gone.

And Tim wants, _desperately_ , to reach out, hold Batman's hand and tell him that he's _there_ , he _understands_. Batman shouldn't be alone, _ever_.

But Tim can't.

He grips the print instead, cradles it close and tries to pretend like the tiny drops of water on the shiny surface are from the final wash and not him.  
 

* * *

   
**63 / xlii. 1/250 | f. 8 | ISO 800 | 75mm | Leica M6 | Kodak TRI-X 400 | Kodak D-76 | Ilfospeed Multigrade II MG.2M Glossy | Ilford Multigrade Developer**

It's... strange. Not bad (Dick could never be), but strange. New, unfamiliar. It doesn't feel like home.

There's too much light, for one. Tim thinks he's never shot at this speed. New York is alight, bright even where it's supposed to be dark. It's _alive_ , which he thinks shouldn't be so strange, but Tim is from _Gotham_ , which has always been, is always, and will always be halfway to its grave.

And then there's Dick. Who isn't _bad_. It's just—

Dick isn't _Robin_. He's... Tim doesn't know his new name yet.

It's a simple image, taken from a distance greater than he's gotten used to. Unfamiliar city, unfamiliar territory. Dick is mid-kick, facing off against an almost-robber. His new suit is a dark blue that appears black on the print. There are two shades of light gray also present: one for a few accents that Tim knows are yellow and another one for the baby blue of the boots, gloves, and high collar. Tim is somewhere between amazed and dismayed at Dick's ability to have come up with an even more flamboyant, flashy costume than Robin's, but, ultimately, it fits Dick.

And... 

And maybe there's something about the exposed flesh between the lapels of the collar that is shockingly intriguing, and perhaps he finds the way the top of that same collar brushes against Dick's long hair to be oddly fixating. Tim is not sure what any of that means except perhaps that his... _obsession_ goes well beyond merely the Robin persona. 

What he's sure of is that Dick seems to be doing okay, and Batman seems to be doing okay enough, and so everything will probably be okay and Dick will maybe return to Gotham someday.


End file.
